Nemesis and the Troll King

by Ashley Du Toit

  Dylan raised his brows. Apparently his brother had picked up a few choice words along the way.

  “Three years ago, my brother, Prince Joshua Gray …” Dylan stared pointedly at Yarg before continuing, “left our castle to attend to some family business. He didn’t come home. We couldn’t find any trace of him, even though we searched every possible avenue. We had all but given up hope that we would find him alive …”

  Dylan paused for a moment to watch his brother’s face closely, “… then yesterday I captured a leprechaun. In return for his freedom he gave me some information.”

  Yarg raised his hand, interrupting Dylan. “If your leprechaun told you that I was mortal, he lied to you,” he said flatly.

  Deliberately ignoring the interruption, Dylan continued, “The leprechaun told me an interesting story about a mortal and a fairy.”

  Dylan paused again and Yarg stuck out his hands, palms towards the ceiling, and said in exasperation, “So, what was this story?”

  Dylan stifled the smile that threatened to creep up on his mouth.

  “It was a tale about a mortal who followed the Fairy of Blue Bells into the immortal realm. When she blocked his access to the immortal realm and tried to make him return home, he refused and insulted her. The fairy tried to protect herself from his taunts, but it was too late. When Nemesis showed up and saw the damage the human had inflicted upon the little fairy, he cursed the human into the body of a troll. And it is this troll … you … that I entered this realm to find.”

  Yarg snorted. “Then you’ve had a wasted trip. I’ve been a troll all my life. If I was this prince you say I am, I would surely remember it,” he added triumphantly.

  “No, you wouldn’t,” Dylan corrected him. “Nemesis touched you, as a result you have amnesia and remember nothing of your life before.”

  Yarg leaned back on his great throne. He picked up his club and pretended to inspect it, then rubbed his hands along it. The silence stretched out, those in the hall hardly daring to twitch a muscle.

  Finally Yarg brought his gaze up to meet Dylan’s and said, “That was very good, mortal. You almost had me believing you. But what you say is just not possible.”

  Dylan groaned deep in his throat. What more could he say to convince him?

  Silence fell. It had stretched to the point of being uncomfortable.

  Yarg asked, “Not that I believe you, you understand, but if such a spell had been cast, would it be permanent?”

  Dylan kept the smile off his face with difficulty. Yarg was considering the possibility.

  Dylan answered neutrally, “Well, according to the leprechaun, no. The spell can be reversed if the troll redeems himself.”

  “And how would he do that?” asked Yarg, still seemingly fascinated by the club.

  Dylan frowned, not remembering if Nirb had mentioned that to him. “I’m not sure,” then after a pause to think it through, “I think he would need to ask Nemesis.”

  “Uhmm,” said Yarg, his tone non-committal. “Not that it matters, because it’s too improbable to be possible.”

  Dylan groaned again. “Why is it so improbable? I’ve only been here a few minutes and I can see the difference between you and the other trolls.”

  “What are you saying, mortal?” Yarg said, adding a warning growl low in his throat.

  “I’m only saying that I’ve seen a few things that differ. You are much taller and leaner, your speech is very different, far more refined. I’m sure that if you look you will see other differences as well. Tell me, what is your earliest memory?”

  Yarg rolled his eyes but answered nonetheless. “I can’t remember my parents or siblings, but I remember hunting, thumping and fire-blazing practices.”

  Dylan persisted. “How long have you been king?”

  Yarg glared at him. He reached out his hand, grabbed Dylan by the front of his tunic and pulled him closer. “You go too far, mortal,” he threatened. “Either you are a fool, or you think that I am. Which is it?”

  Dylan recognised what was driving Yarg. As princes, he and Gray had been brought up to expect deference—none of Dylan’s people would have challenged their prince as he was challenging Yarg. He needed to calm the situation down.

  “I am not a fool, and neither are you,” he said softly. “The leprechaun mentioned that Nemesis left a clue.”

  Yarg released Dylan and settled back on his throne. “What type of clue?” he asked.

  “When we were children, you refused to be called Joshua. Everyone called you Gray. It was the only name you ever used. Do you remember?”

  Yarg growled, “No.”

  “Nemesis named the troll ‘Yarg’,” Dylan said.

  Noticing the confusion on his brother’s face, he explained, “Yarg is Gray spelt backwards.”

  Yarg looked seriously annoyed. “What utter rubbish!” he snapped.

  Dylan cringed at the anger in Yarg’s voice. Becoming a troll hadn’t done anything for his brother’s stubbornness, he thought.

  Yarg suddenly straightened and yelled at the top of his voice: “Taliyard!”

  “Taliyard?” Dylan enquired, looking around to see who or what the name belonged to.

  “My chief troll,” said Yarg as he straightened from his throne and headed towards the massive troll who was coming from his post at the entrance to the room.Taliyard was a giant. While only slightly taller than Yarg, his body weight was almost double his king’s. He stopped in front of Yarg and nodded his head in greeting.

  “Taliyard, how long have you known me?” Yarg asked abruptly, watching his chief closely.

  Taliyard’s face blanched at the question. “Ah … known you, my king?” he stalled.

  Yarg reached out and slapped the back of Taliyard’s head, a strong encouragement for the chief troll to answer. Taliyard swayed forward, just stopping himself from falling onto Yarg.

  “Ah … three years, my king,” Taliyard said gruffly, rubbing the back of his head with his big hand.

  “What?” roared Yarg, his eyes opening so wide that they looked in danger of bulging out.

  “It’s true,” Taliyard said quickly, stepping back out of reach.

  “Explain,” demanded Yarg, advancing to close the gap.

  “Uh … about three years ago, the troops and I is out on a mashing, whacking spree when we hears something groan. We sees somethin’ covered in mud and grass lyin’ on the ground. We moves forward to whack the thing, but when we gets closer, we realises it’s blue, a troll like us,” he stammered out. “Anyways, I asks you what you is doin’ and where you come from. Then you stands up, grabs my club and bashes me over the head wiv it,” he said, his hand moving again to rub the spot on his head, as if it still hurt.

  “What in troll’s tarnation are you talking about?” yelled Yarg, glaring at Taliyard.

  Taliyard blinked at the violence in Yarg’s tone.

  “I’se talkin’ about you takin’ my place as king. By the time you stops bashin’ me over the head, it’s too late. All the trolls reckonise you as the new king. I doesn’t wants to be an outcast, so I just falls in with them. I doesn’t mind, though, you is a good king and you does a really good job.” Then musingly, “Except of course when you says we can’t go on whacking sprees so often, or when you says we isn’t allowed to pull the wings off the fairies no more, but other than that you’ve been a good king,” he said solemnly, nodding approvingly at Yarg.

  “Three years,” said Yarg dazedly.

  Taliyard nodded his head in agreement. “We’se had fun teasing the fairies and pixies. We’se had fun chasing the dragonflies and butterflies …”

  Taliyard droned on, listing all the things he considered Yarg had been doing right in the last three years. He failed to notice that Yarg was not listening to him. Yarg had stepped away from Taliyard and wa
s sitting on his throne, dazed.

  Interrupting Taliyard’s rambling, Yarg asked. “Why have you never talked about this before?”

  Taliyard scratched his head and looked confused.

  Shaking his head, Yarg grumbled, “Never mind.”

  Yarg stared at Dylan. “I still don’t think this story of yours has any merit, but let’s say for argument’s sake that it does. What do I do now?”

  Dylan lowered his head. Once he had mastered the relieved smile that crossed his face, he looked again at Dylan.

  “We must travel to Nemesis and seek the truth.”

  Yarg raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean ‘we’?” he asked quietly.

  Dylan’s jaw dropped in astonishment. “Of course I’ll be coming with you,” he said.

  Yarg gave a smile that revealed his long, pointed teeth, and Dylan was instantly suspicious. “Thank you for coming to tell me all this, but you must realise that this journey is mine alone to make, and alone I shall make it,” Yarg said.

  Dylan opened his mouth to argue, but Taliyard beat him to it, shouting in horror: “No, my king! You surely doesn’t mean to leave us.”

  Yarg growled deeply in response. “We all need to know the truth, Taliyard. In my absence you will be in command. Your word will be law. Understand?”

  Yarg stood up. Ignoring Taliyard’s stricken face, he turned his gaze in turn to every troll in the hall. “Understand?”

  One by one their heads dropped in acceptance of their king’s decree. Finally Yarg’s eyes met Dylan’s.

  Pasting a stiff smile on his face he said, “Come, mortal, I want to show you something.” He walked away, not looking back to see if Dylan was following him. Dylan stared at Yarg’s back for a full minute before he followed his brother.

  Mumbling loud enough for only Yarg to hear, he said, “I am going with you …”

  Yarg smiled, even though Dylan couldn’t see it. He didn’t want to be a mortal, but he did like this human.

  He led Dylan to the back of the hall, stopping when they reached the end. Putting his hand on a panel in the wall, he whispered some words beneath his breath.

  Dylan blinked in astonishment as a door, disguised as part of the wall, opened to reveal a small room lined with rough and uneven bricks.

  Yarg walked into the room and Dylan followed, sneezing from the dust that their entry had kicked up. Yarg looked over his shoulder at the sound, and then moved towards a corner of the room.

  Dylan looked around, keen to see what this strange room contained. It was lined with roughly-shaped slabs that formed stone shelves and tables. Upon each table lay a treasure. The table closest to him held musical instruments, some beautifully carved from wood, others moulded from silver and gold. A few of the instruments he had never seen before, and he had reached out his hand to pick one of them up when Yarg called out: “Don’t touch anything!”

  Shaking his head, he pulled back his hand and moved to the next table. This one housed an assortment of engraved cups and bowls. Nestled between them was a beautiful dagger, its handle encrusted with jewels that sparkled in the dim light despite the dust that coated them. Dylan stuck his hand in his pockets to stifle the temptation to pick it up, and forced himself toward the next table.

  On this was laid an assortment of old witches’ brooms, coated in dust so thick it must have been a very long time since anyone had used them. Sneezing again, he moved on to the next table. Feathers of all colours and sizes littered its top. Dylan moved his eyes over them, wondering why anyone would need so many feathers.

  What he saw on the next table made him catch his breath. Four sets of tiny, exquisite, transparent wings lay before him, each set dazzlingly unique. Dylan had never seen anything remotely like them, and this time he had to curl his fingers into fists to prevent him reaching out to stroke their gossamer beauty. The wings shimmered and shone, glowing as if with a life of their own, inviting and enticing him.

  Dylan looked over to where Yarg was standing at a table in the corner. His brother was holding an old book covered in tendrils of spider webs and a thin layer of dust.

  As Dylan watched, he opened the book and placed it back down on the table. Then he began writing something down, all the while whispering to himself. Dylan shook his head and turned his attention once more to the wings.

  “How did you come by these beautiful wings?” he asked absently.

  Yarg remained silent for a while, and then, “I traded the fairies for them,” he said quietly.

  Dylan’s eyes left them reluctantly as he moved to the next table. Before him was an assortment of jars, each filled to the brim with glittering specks of dust. Frowning, he wondered why his brother collected coloured dust.

  “Why have you got coloured dust?” he asked.

  “It’s not dust,” sighed Yarg. “Those jars are filled with different kinds of magic. Don’t ask me any more questions. I think you already know much more than you’re supposed to.”

  Dylan was just about to approach the next table when Yarg called for him to come. Dylan raised his eyebrows but walked forward, seating himself on the edge of the table that Yarg stood behind. A strange feeling unravelled in the pit of his stomach and a sudden stillness settled on the room. Dylan had just opened his mouth to comment on it when the intent look on Yarg’s face stopped him.

  “I thank you for coming. Perhaps we will meet again. Goodbye …”

  Dylan heard the words as if from a great distance. His heart began to beat faster, the room began to swirl, and then everything went black. Within the blink of an eye he was standing in front of his very own castle, as if he’d never left.

  3

  A Centaur Named Folgoo

  Yarg blinked as the mortal who claimed to be his brother disappeared.

  “I didn’t have a choice. There’s no way I could take a mortal on this journey,” he reassured himself.

  He gathered a few things into a bag, threw it across his shoulder, and left the castle. Passing into the courtyard where the trolls had gathered to farewell him, he stopped next to Taliyard and whispered instructions that would allow his chief to run the kingdom during its king’s absence. Then, with a last goodbye, Yarg turned in the direction of BlackMist Mountain.

  As Yarg set one foot after the other, his mind gnawed at every aspect of his dilemma. He had to get to BlackMist Mountain, then he had to find the hidden Valley Mystic, had to find Nemesis, had to save a fairy … he growled in frustration. Which fairy? He didn’t even know the fairy’s name—had no recollection of her at all, in fact.

  Doubts and conflict raging within him, Yarg trudged on, almost becoming used to the sharp rays of the sun beaming down on his bare head. After some hours, he was brought out of his reverie by a sudden lessening of the light and heat.

  Shaking his mind free of the turmoil of his thoughts, Yarg realised that he had entered a thickly-wooded forest. He looked up to see huge branches covered in broad leaves blocking out the sun’s rays, allowing passage only to faint wisps of dusky light.

  Yarg began to walk again. The deeper he moved into the wood’s depths, the more still it became. Birds resting upon high perches silently observed his passage, insects were motionlessly indistinguishable from their surroundings, even the rustling of the leaves had stopped.

  Yarg entered a small clearing and a ripple of awareness wound its way up his thick arms. In the centre of the clearing stood a solitary tree, the solid mass of its trunk testifying to great age.

  One of the ancients …

  Yarg moved slowly forward and reverently placed his hand on its trunk. He moved closer and pressed his nose right up against the bark, inhaling deeply of the rich woody scent. He sighed, realising how long it had been since he had taken the time to appreciate what nature gave so freely.

  Sinking to the soft ground at the base o
f the tree, he leaned his back against it and rested for a moment. He closed his eyes and let his other senses take over—smells of rich earth and growing things, feel of rough bark against his back and soft moss beneath his legs …

  He was content, on the verge of being lulled to sleep, when a light breeze picked up, wafting the most horrid smell to him. He sniffed once, then again, trying to identify the stench, then a thought occurred to him. He raised his arm to sniff his armpit, then abruptly jerked his head away. He barely managed to keep himself from gagging as he turned his head to gulp in fresh air.

  How could I smell so bad and not know it? he wondered.

  Yarg had risen, about to seek out a stream to wash in, when he heard what sounded like a footfall on dry leaves—muffled, but not far away. He looked carefully around the clearing. Nothing moved, yet Yarg’s instincts told him that he wasn’t alone. He stepped silently around the massive trunk …

  And came face to face with a huge centaur.

  Yarg stared at the creature. The burly lower horse body, with its four powerfully muscled and hairy legs, was perfectly joined to an equally muscled human torso. Around its neck was a heavy gold chain. Suspended from it was a golden medallion embossed with a small figure of a centaur holding a flaming ball.

  Yarg’s scrutiny reached the creature’s face. It was smooth, with the exception of a few whiskers scattered across the chin, and surprisingly handsome. Yarg blinked as his gaze met the centaur’s eerily blazing blue eyes.

  Yarg had never met a centaur, but the other trolls told many stories about them.

  According to the legends, centaurs were extremely peculiar—very highly strung, taking offence at the slightest, often imagined transgression; extremely welcoming one moment, irrationally irritated the next. They had an unlimited knowledge of healing skills and a talent for hunting, while the most gifted had a flair for music.

  Centaurs believed that the stars predicted the secrets of the different realms, and that through them they could see the past, present and future. The thing that had intrigued Yarg most about them was that they were said to be brutally honest.